


Seeking Control

by LookBetweenTheLines



Series: Complaints of a Hero [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Battles and Blood, Build-up to sex, Creative Licence taken, First half of Heavensward, M/M, Non-Romantic Sex, Re-imagining Heavensward, rating for last chapter, spoilers for heavensward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-13 23:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20591249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookBetweenTheLines/pseuds/LookBetweenTheLines
Summary: It was rather by chance that Estinien was in Ishgard at the time the remaining trio of the Scions were discussing a way to prevent the oncoming Dravanian siege. But if it would get them close to his nemesis, it was a chance Estinien would seize. Even if it meant entire days in the company of a particular miqo'te.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I just wanted to write smut between my WoL and best boy Estinien, but apparently I'm incapable of doing that without a massive build-up, which is how this ~20k word mess happened. The smut in question only appears in the final chapter, so if that's not your thing then you're safe up until that point!

Estinien Wyrmblood looked on at the strange trio loitering at the entrance of Fortemps Manor speaking in hushed tones. He had thought the boy and the miqo'te queer enough when first they met in Camp Dragonhead and in Ishgard proper their foreignness seemed only amplified, particularly in the company of the lalafell who was, he had been informed, the Scions' secretary. Unassuming as they were, they could not hide from many a curious gaze of high- and lowborn alike. 

They had been back in Ishgard little more than a bell and already they were planning to leave again, this time to meet the heart of the horde head-on. Estinien listened to their plan with no small amount of interest. 

Attempting to parlay with the Dravanians was a fool's errand and to negotiate peace with the dread wyrm himself was a death wish. For the boy and the secretary, at least. But it would, he had to concede, buy precious time for Ishgard to defend herself. Estinien felt his eye drawn to the miqo'te. While Master Leveilleur had proven to have some skill with white magicks during the trial by combat, it had been Z'kila that had all but annihilated the Heavens Ward pair; darting in with well-aimed strikes of his blades before hopping out of reach again, taunting his opponents by leaping on their shoulders at times. He had been so light on his feet that they barely managed to land a hit. And that was before he started summoning the elements out of the aether with Far Eastern hand gestures. 

If some of the highborn hadn’t labelled him a heretic before, they certainly did now. It was lucky he had some level of diplomatic immunity in the shape of House Fortemps or there would be many Temple Knights slipped a few coins to turn assassin for the night. 

Estinien's curiosity peaked when the little one made mention of Iceheart. 

A sliver of hope to stop the siege ere it began, was the boy's theory. A sliver indeed. A fool's errand, Estinien thought again, but one that would put them within reach of Nidhogg's lair. It was too much of an opportunity to pass up. 

‘If there is to be a meeting, I would accompany you,’ he called out on his approach. 

Three stunned gazes turned to him. 

Master Leveilleur did the honour of introducing him, the surprise almost comically evident on his young features. ‘Estinien?!’ 

The lalafell shuffled closer to Z’kila. Estinien didn’t take offence. He was aware how intimidating his dark armour could be. The Warrior of Light had been blank-faced listening to the beginnings of Alphinaud’s plan but he looked at Estinien with a raised eyebrow. As always, as Estinien had come to note, his thoughts were infuriatingly absent from his expression. Quite the opposite of his companions. 

Estinien made short work of explaining himself and didn’t attempt to hide his doubt of Iceheart and her role as intermediary. And that was assuming they could even find her and that she would agree to help. He hesitated just a moment before offering an alternative strategy. ‘With the power of the Eye at my disposal, and the vaunted strength of the Warrior of Light, we could conceivably slay the beast outright…’ 

He didn’t miss the twitch in Z’kila’s jaw. Apparently he hadn’t been able to completely conceal his sarcasm.

They ended up in a compromise. They would only resort to violence if diplomacy failed. Estinien felt it was an easy deal; of course any notion of peace talks would fail. This was Nidhogg, one of Midgardsormr’s brood, vengeance incarnate that had waged war on Ishgard for nigh-on a thousand years. A friendly chat wasn’t going to change that. An impressive negotiator for his age Alphinaud may be, but it was moments like this that shone a spotlight on his naïveté. 

But he would go along with it. For now. 

Before they could go anywhere, however, they had to petition the aid of Aymeric. Estinien was not going to risk his closest (perhaps only) friend being accused of heresy, though, so they had to do it on the most vague assurances they could manage. Estinien couldn’t imagine whether Aymeric would agree or not without any details. He could only hope. Perhaps the combined word of the Azure Dragoon and the Warrior of Light, whom Aymeric trusted more than Estinien deemed sensible, could convince him to stay Ishgard’s counterattack for a time. 

As expected Aymeric was in the middle of directing the Temple Knight’s resources to the city’s defences as much as he was able without express permission from the Heavens Ward when Alphinaud, Z’kila and Estinien were shown into the Seat of the Lord Commander. Also unsurprising was the way his face lit up when they appeared. Considering his position Estinien thought he made a terrible politician at times. 

The boy took charge of explaining the bare bones of their plan. Iceheart was not mentioned, and neither was much else. While Alphinaud spoke, Estinien cast a sidelong glance at Z’kila over his head. His eyes were not on Aymeric but on the floor, a slight frown creasing his brow. He appeared deep in thought, but what that thought may be Estinien couldn’t begin to fathom a guess. The tip of his tail flicked around his calves, brushing each side in turn, but that was the only sign of restlessness. Was he dubious of this endeavour? Worried about failure? Concerned over Alphinaud’s welfare in this venture? For all Estinien could tell perhaps the miqo’te’s breakfast hadn’t sat well with him. 

‘I would know more of the cause you would have me champion,’ said Aymeric once the boy was finished, his voice and face composed back into the mask of the Lord Commander. He spoke carefully. The proposal was a hopeful one- nay, an ideal one, but that was precisely why it seemed so out of reach.

‘Know that I have offered my lance to aid in this endeavour,’ Estinien put in when the boy faltered. 

‘I will be offering myself as well, of course,’ said Z’kila. 

There was something about the timing of this interjection that riled Estinien up the wrong way. He shot a look over at him and found the barest hint of a smirk on the side of his mouth, so much so he couldn’t be certain he wasn’t imagining it. 

‘Our actions should serve to delay Nidhogg’s advances at the very least,’ he added. Why he felt the need to speak again he did not know, only that he wanted to draw Aymeric’s eye from Z’kila.  
Aymeric settled back in his high-backed chair, hands folded across his stomach, and mused, ‘The Azure Dragoon and the Warrior of Light together against the dread wyrm…’ 

Estinien shot a scowl across the boy’s head only to be met with a reflection of the expression from the Warrior in question. Although his visor hid his eyes, Z’kila seemed to know exactly where they were regardless and pinned them with a venomous stare of his own. Estinien held his tongue. It would not do to reveal his derision aloud, not with Aymeric so close to agreeing to aid them, but he did not need this short-arsed, tail-wagging, ear-wiggling runt to help him exact his revenge. This was an arrangement of convenience, not alliance. He wished he could tell Aymeric as much. 

Apparently oblivious to the silent, stormy exchange occurring above Alphinaud’s head, Aymeric continued, ‘The thought of it does much to dispel my misgivings. Go, then. I shall do what I can for you here in the meantime.’ 

Alphinaud smiled angelically and dipped into a shallow bow. Z’kila also smiled and inclined his head, the first of them to turn for the door. All trace of the earlier frown was gone and, misgivings aside, Estinien could not help but wonder what had caused it as he followed, glaring at the overly joyful swishing of that crimson tail.

Back out in the crisp frosty air Z’kila stopped and stretched languidly, like the entirety of the Holy See wasn’t rushing around preparing for a Dravanian invasion. ‘All things considered that went rather well.’ 

‘Indeed,’ said the boy. ‘I rather wish we could leave right away but we must inform Tataru of Ser Aymeric’s acquiescence before we leave. Might I suggest we head back to Fortemps Manor for the night and set out on the morrow?’

Irritation prickled at Estinien’s skin at the proposed delay. A siege was imminent. There was no time for comfortable beds or full bellies, and he was about to say as much but Z’kila beat him to it.

‘We still have a bell or two of daylight left,’ he pointed out. ‘If we head for Falcon’s Nest this evening I’m sure Ser Redwald will provide us with a spare bunk for the night, and that way we have the full day tomorrow to commence our search. What say you?’ he asked, turning his attention unexpectedly on Estinien. 

‘I would sleep easier knowing we are closer to our quarry, aye.’ 

The boy’s discomfort at the idea of sharing the barracks with the Nest’s entire regiment played out across his face in a way that was almost amusing. He mused on the idea for a moment before agreeing, somewhat reluctantly. ‘We must needs inform Tataru regardless,’ he pointed out to Z’kila. 

‘Of course,’ said the miqo’te. ‘Estinien and I will await you at Saint Reinette Forum.’ 

This was not the correct answer, it seemed, but either Z’kila didn’t notice or didn’t care for the pout that momentarily graced the boy’s mouth. He turned on his heel with a wave over his shoulder, heading towards the Arc. 

‘I suppose I shall retrieve your pack for you as well, then?’ Alphinaud mumbled under his breath. 

Estinien stifled a chuckle. ‘Tell your friend we may be some time,’ he said before the boy could run off. ‘The road is neither short nor easy.’ 

Alphinaud acknowledged him with a stiff nod and Estinien turned to follow Z’kila.

The famed Warrior of Light sat on the edge of the fountain with one ankle pulled up onto the other knee. He leant forward on his elbows, turning one of his daggers between his fingers to examine the blade. Estinien stood a little way away while they waited for the boy, watching Z’kila out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t see a problem with the weapon, a spindly mithril blade that was more of a needle. Perhaps its imbued aether was waning. 

‘Do you think Alphinaud naïve, Estinien?’ Z’kila asked, surprising him, without taking his eyes off his knife.

Estinien wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. He couldn’t tell if Z’kila was testing him, or otherwise simply looking for an argument. At length, he said, ‘…I think him an idealist. But should his plan give Ishgard more precious bells to prepare for the onslaught then I think it is one worth pursuing.’

He watched Z’kila’s reaction carefully to see if it was the answer he expected or wanted. He flipped the knife once, apparently satisfied, and returned it to the sheath. Then he looked up at Estinien even though there was nothing of his face to see save the blank visor. He was smiling again. It was a smile that set Estinien off-balance; not quite a smirk, but still retaining a hint of his earlier indignation. ‘But you don’t think a parley will work, do you?’ 

‘…I do not.’ Why it was so painful to admit he wasn’t sure. 

‘Good. That makes two of us.’ He stood with a flick of his tail, taking advantage of Estinien’s surprise. ‘But Alphinaud need not know of this. If he suspects both of us of having blood on our minds he may attempt to keep us out of reach of Nidhogg.’

Estinien raised an eyebrow that Z’kila couldn’t see. ‘The boy wouldn’t heed your advice on this matter?’ 

‘Perhaps. But I know he would rather exhaust all options that avoid bloodshed first.’ 

Who was this chatterbox? What happened to the brooding silence of the Warrior of Light that everyone spoke of? ‘Perhaps he can keep you to heel,’ he answered slowly, relishing the way Z'kila's eyes narrowed, ‘but he has no such sway over me. When diplomacy fails, I will take my lance to Nidhogg. I don’t need permission from a child or help from a foreigner,’ he added for good measure. 

‘...We'll see about that,’ Z'kila said at length. 

He turned his back on Estinien towards the Arc, where Alphinaud approached hauling two full packs, a bow and a quiver. Wearing a new coat too, one that was slightly better designed for the Coerthan chill. These last two items he deposited at Z'kila's feet along with the larger of the packs. ‘I assume you will want for game on our journey?’ he asked scathingly.

‘Right you are,’ replied Z'kila, buckling the pack into place and shouldering the – admittedly very nice – cedarwood bow. ‘My thanks. Shall we?’

‘Let's,’ said Estinien before either of them could propose further delays and headed down the hill to see if Roderic had a black chocobo or two to lend them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Day One**

Estinien woke with the bell that roused the rest of Ser Redwald's squadron. If the alarum hadn’t stirred him the ruckus that followed certainly would have; what remained of the knights positioned at Falcon’s Nest were not discreet in readying themselves for the day. Many of them had already been sent back to Ishgard proper in order to help aid defences there and as such there had been plenty of spare bunks for Redwald to offer. 

Estinien sat up and began the lengthy process of donning his armour, grateful he was no longer one of the knights expected to be awake and presentable in mere moments. He could recall far too many such mornings and felt a pang of empathy for the young men and women scrambling about to get their chainmail on correctly and their bunks tidy at the same time. 

Across the way he watched Z’kila hop down from his top bunk in nothing but his undershirt and skivvies and shake the shoulder of the boy in the cot beneath. ‘Time to go,’ he said with a final shove, turning to his pack to find his leathers. It was entirely too cold to sleep mostly nude but mayhap miqo’te were as hot-blooded as their tempers led to believe. 

Master Leveilleur proved to be as much the sheltered noble’s son as Estinien expected. It took the pair of them, Estinien fully armoured and Z’kila buckling his plated vambraces onto his forearms, to stand over him to get him out of bed at such an early hour. 

‘Might I remind you that time is not our ally on this venture,’ Estinien growled at the small elezen-shaped lump beneath the thin sheets.

‘Iceheart awaits, friend,’ added Z’kila, squatting at the head of the cot and trying to peer through a gap in the blanket. ‘Do you really want to risk Estinien leading the diplomatic talks with the leader of the heretics?’

Estinien didn’t grace that jibe with a response. 

‘I slept not a wink!’ eventually came the muffled answer. ‘How could anybody sleep in such poor conditions? And you expect your entire army to function with rags for bedding and slop for meals!’

‘And we function just fine,’ Estinien countered. ‘And we do so without complaint. Not all of us have the luxury of a daily hot meal or a warm hearth at the bedside.’ 

‘Count Edmont has spoiled us, it seems,’ Z’kila said as an aside to Estinien. 

‘Indeed.’

Z’kila straightened up and crossed his arms. ‘Alphinaud, if you don’t get up and dressed this instant Estinien will tip the mattress.’ 

The boy threw off his blankets at that and sat up, revealing a full set of gentleman’s pinstriped pyjamas. Apparently this was a threat Z’kila had gone through with before. ‘All right, all right. By the Twelve, I’m awake.’ 

‘Good. That’s step one,’ said Z’kila. ‘Now get dressed so we can go.’

The boy glanced up at the pair of them and seemed suddenly embarrassed by the fact they were both ready to leave. Z’kila was already gathering his bow and shouldering his quiver. He ran a hasty hand over his wild mane of white tresses and sat up. ‘I’ll be ready shortly,’ he mumbled. ‘If you don’t mind..?’

Estinien caught Z’kila’s eye roll as he turned his back on the boy before he realised what was being asked. He resisted a similar gesture even though it would go unseen and turned to stand at Z’kila’s side, muttering, ‘How bloody precious.’ 

Z’kila made a noncommittal noise in answer.

Save for the three of them, the barracks was now deserted. Although no longer a Temple Knight, Estinien still felt an echo of the panging shame at still not being ready. Every shuffle of fabric and snap of a button served to increase his impatience. ‘Privacy is a luxury ill afforded to the less privileged among us,’ he grumbled, mostly to himself. 

Z’kila glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. ‘A luxury you say? I don’t consider it either here or there. Everybody has a body; it’s not something to be either ashamed or proud of.’ 

‘I suppose that attitude is where the notorious shamelessness of Sun Seekers comes from.’ 

‘It only appears shameless next to the prudishness of elezen.’ The retort came easily but the defensive edge in Z’kila’s voice was satisfying enough for Estinien.

‘If you both are quite finished with your verbal sparring,’ the boy interjected, finally dressed with his hair back in its usual braid, ‘I say let’s speak again with Ser Redwald and begin the search for our quarry with whatever direction he can suggest.’ He had done much to compose himself but a frazzled note remained in his voice, possibly due to the subject of said ‘verbal sparring.’  
With that, he strode towards the door and left them both behind. 

‘…We were waiting on him,’ Z’kila said to the closed door. 

‘Very well spotted,’ Estinien drawled, smirking when Z’kila shot a scowl over at him, and followed after the boy. He listened to the following miqo’te with strained ears, his boots barely whispering on the stone floor. 

**Day Two**

‘-and then this aevis came swooping down from the clifftop and landed nigh on top of my wyvern corpse. Teeth, claws and wings thrashing about all over the place, I tell you! I felled that beast just as I did that wyvern, you mark my words, only to have another great big bugger make off with them before I could so much as swing my lance. And without the claws or teeth to prove it no one will believe me!’

Estinien didn’t believe it either. He had asked one of the Convictor knights the simplest of questions regarding heretic activity and the spew of drivel about the many (many) dragons the man had slain was his reward. 

Perhaps he would have cut him off earlier with a snide remark but he was barely able to keep his eyes open, much less keep his wit sharp. The length of cloth the boy had the audacity to call a tent had barely been large enough to fit the three of them comfortably. Each of them had their own bedroll of course, but nevertheless it had been most discomfiting trying to sleep with the thin, scratchy cloth wall on one side and a snoozing Z’kila breathing into his ear on the other. 

Their arrival at the Convictory early that morning had been met with a warm welcome and before the next bell all the knights had heard that the Azure Dragoon was visiting the tiny camp. Estinien wasn’t often one to bask in his title but had assumed it would rile up Z’kila the wrong way to not be the most famous one of the party, only to find a look of unrestrained relief cross his face when Ser Jantellot gushed over Estinien’s presence. 

Now he had to listen to every knight’s best dragon-slaying story while they hunted for anyone that knew anything about the heretics. 

Across the camp he spotted the taller of his two companions speaking with one of the more agèd knights in the camp. No sooner had he noticed did Z’kila glance over and lock eyes with him, beckoning him over with a jerk of his chin. The boy was already on his way over.

Abandoning the knight’s next story just as Midgardsormr’s corpse flew overtop the highlands or some other such nonsense, Estinien crossed the camp towards the more promising individual, ‘Pierriquet’ as he introduced himself. The old man couldn’t so much point them in the direction of Iceheart as they hoped, but he did reveal a possible method of bringing the heretics to them. A purple smoke signal was all it took, or so he claimed. 

Estinien had his doubts but it was worth the attempt. It was hardly the most gruelling of tasks after all; some firewood and a couple of yak hides would do the trick. In fact the firewood would perhaps be the trickier of the two to procure, and following the disastrous parley attempt at the Akh Afah Amphitheatre some success wouldn’t go amiss. 

Initially Estinien intended to hunt down the yaks himself; easy prey compared to his usual targets, and bring Z’kila to hurry along the skinning process. One glance at the boy changed his mind. He had held his own in the trial by combat, true, but with Z’kila at his side to haul him out of difficulty. Mayhap it would be prudent to make sure he wasn’t by himself when scalekin swarms came frequently and he doubted the miqo’te had any idea how to find suitable wood for burning in the snowy wasteland. 

‘If the monster hunter among us would like to acquire a number of hides,’ he directed, ‘Master Alphinaud, you and I shall gather wood for the fire.’ 

Z’kila saluted with an arm across his chest and Estinien strangely didn’t detect an edge of sarcasm in the gesture. 

‘Let us meet at the Dreaming Dragon,’ he said by way of farewell. Z’kila nodded and took off out of the Convictory at an easy loping run, his footprints light and soon covered by fresh snowfall. 

‘Shall we?’ asked Alphinaud, pulling Estinien’s attention away. 

Not that Estinien expected the boy to be an expert survivalist in these conditions, it was still a shock to see just how clueless he was. The number of times Estinien had to stop and tell him that no, damp twigs did not make for good kindling, made their venture drag on into the afternoon and by the time they made it to the rise looking up at the Dreaming Dragon he was honestly surprised that Z'kila wasn’t there waiting for them. 

‘Do you suppose he’s been met with difficulty?’ Alphinaud asked once he had built something of a pyramid out of the wood. 

‘Mayhap.’ It was possible Z'kila had encountered a wyvern swarm if he had to wander too far from the Convictory. He was a man that could hold his own, certainly, but against an entire swarm? 

As Estinien looked out across the frozen wastes back in the direction of the Convictory and the moments ticked by with no sign of any miqo'te, his palm began to itch with the desire to reach for his lance. Z'kila may be a hunter of monsters and men alike but dragons were a new foe to him, surely. Would he know their weak spots? Be able to reach them even if he did? What real damage could those daggers of his really do? What protection did he have against fang and claw? 

‘Apologies for the delay,’ came an infuriatingly lazy drawl just as Estinien was reaching for his lance. Z'kila trudged up the rise covered in furs. ‘Skinning them took a while and then a polar bear snuck up on me. I skinned that too. Thought it might make a decent blanket.’

The two woolly yak hides were draped across his shoulders and the white polar bear fur was folded over his forearm. One of his stature ought to buckle under such a weight and yet he carried them without any difficulty. That is, until he went to drop them beside Alphinaud’s unlit campfire and staggered under the sudden shift of weight. The amusing sight was almost enough to quell Estinien’s rancour. While Z’kila knelt beside his quarry and drew a hunting knife from the back of his belt, smaller than his daggers, and set about cutting the yak hides into smaller pieces Estinien stood over him with a hidden scowl on his face. How dare this miqo’te make him, the Azure Dragoon, fret over him like an overbearing mother? But to say something or make his ire evident in any way would be to draw the Warrior’s derision. 

Z’kila went on with his work oblivious to Estinien’s internal conflict. Crouched beside him leaning over the firewood Alphinaud struggled with a tinderbox. Estinien turned his back on the pair of them lest they become aware of his mood and instead looked out across the highlands. 

There was no guarantee that the heretics would see their signal, less so that they would be given the chance to speak with their leader. If they were seen, there was nothing to prevent Akh Afah Amphitheatre from happening again. Every one of those heretics knew the Azure Dragoon, knew Z’kila as the man that vanquished their beloved Shiva. Hells, none of this was going to go any better. 

With some help the boy managed to get a fire going and Z’kila lay a cut square of yak hide over the flames. They had to retreat some yalms away to escape the stench and venture back only to replace it when the violet hue of the smoke started to fade. In the meantime the three of them stood looking out across the gentle slopes and sheer cliffs of ice and snow, waiting for any sign of approach or ambush. There were a few too many high points for archers to look down on them for Estinien’s liking. 

They waited in silence. Alphinaud’s optimism was near enough palpable and Z’kila’s realism was just as evident, perhaps because it was borne from the same vein as Estinien’s own. There was a tension in his shoulders and his legs that revealed an expectation of another battle. Perhaps it was only because Estinien shared this expectation that he could read it on his companion. 

‘I should have known it would be you.’ 

The woman's voice startled all of them. Estinien was surprised that Z'kila didn’t hear her approach, to see him flinch at the sudden proximity of her words. Estinien might have spotted her if he’d been looking where he was meant to. He turned to see Iceheart, alone and seemingly unarmed. Estinien cast his eyes over the landscape once more. Surely she would not risk coming alone, especially as she seemed at ease so close to them. There were other heretics about, there had to be. Watching. 

‘Word reached me of a struggle,’ she went on. ‘Forgive my comrades their hostility. Few come here uninvited, and fewer still with good intent.’ 

Estinien was taken aback by the sudden and, dare he say it, unnecessary apology. He glanced over at his companions without meaning to, wondering whether they felt the same. Alphinaud, obviously; the thought was writ clear as day on his face. Z’kila, not so; his expression was composed back into perfect neutrality, though his ears were rotating every which way while his eyes gazed forward. 

‘Tell me why you are here,’ said Iceheart, meeting that gaze with equal resolve while her voice dropped from its previously amiable tone. 

Z’kila lifted his chin and a small smile lifted the corners of his mouth in a way that was anything but genuine. ‘To prevent Nidhogg’s attack on Ishgard.’ 

Iceheart raised a delicate silver eyebrow and the boy stepped up to explain in fuller detail his plan for a peaceful resolution. Z’kila remained carefully composed throughout and Estinien endeavoured to do the same. It was almost a relief when Iceheart scoffed at the idea and called it a romantic notion. Almost. Without Iceheart’s cooperation getting anywhere near the Dravanians would be next to impossible, but at least she wasn’t filling the boy with false hope of pleasant conversation over supper. 

‘Shall I relate it to you?’ she said, eyes on Z’kila once more. Estinien supposed she was wary of him, the sole individual to thwart her plans thus far. ‘The sordid history my gift has shown me?’ 

Estinien was ready to claim her words as lies before the first had even left her mouth but held his tongue. The story started off familiar enough, the war betwixt man and dragon when the elezen first arrived in Coerthas. The utterly sickening partnership between Saint Shiva and Hraesvelgr was also not new to Estinien’s ears, though Iceheart spun the tale with a more romantic air, which only served to make him feel physically nauseous. The entire concept of the wyrm consuming the woman in order to eternally bind their souls and thus end the conflict was not something found in Ishgardian scripture. Estinien would have disregarded her claims outright if she hadn’t looked so mournful relaying the story. Her claims of the elezen being the first to betray the alliance, however, Estinien could not believe.  
‘No amount of conciliatory words will stay Nidhogg's fury,’ she concluded, as though Ishgard's fate was already sealed. Her words might be true if not for one small detail. 

‘’Tis true that Nidhogg greatly desired to reclaim the eye,’ he said into the silence that followed her tale. The eye stayed with him always, on every excursion and wandering beyond the Gates, precisely to keep a siege on Ishgard at bay. Pulling the eye from the pouch at his hip to better prove his point and ignoring the boys exclamation he added, ‘Now it would seem he has fixed his attention on Ishgard itself.’ 

Nidhogg's rage flooded him, the veritable, tangible aether of nothing but anger and bloodlust cascading out of the eye. Estinien could feel it corrupting his own aether with each passing moment it remained unbound, a discomfort he had long grown used to. There had been that one unfortunate misstep not so long ago that, of all people, an adventurer had to pull him out of, but Estinien had learned from that. He was not about to let it happen again. 

Out of the corner of his eye he caught Z'kila crossing his arms, possibly musing over the somewhat conflicting claims. He remained silent as talks continued, apparently lost to his own world of possibilities. He looked up again when the boy mentioned Hraesvelgr’s name. 

‘He may yet welcome our attempts to broker a peace,’ Alphinaud argued, sounding every bit as hopeful and naïve as noble boys are wont. 

At length Iceheart spoke again. ‘Very well. I will take you to him.’ 

Not even Z'kila could hide his surprise at her proclamation; or was it scepticism that raised his brow? The most Estinien could glean from his expression was that he intended to speak, to challenge her or thank her he knew not, but as Iceheart verbally laid out their path for them anything he wanted to say was cut off by a wince of pain. His hand came up to his chest as though suddenly struggling to fill it with breath. 

Iceheart did not notice the subtle movement and turned on her heel to lead the way. Alphinaud, however, did notice and turned to his friend. Estinien, pretending to be none the wiser and irritated with himself for noticing in the first place, took off after Iceheart lest they lose their way. He did not hear what, if anything, transpired between them as he walked on, keeping a close eye on Iceheart’s back. There was something amiss here, though what he was yet to grasp.


	3. Chapter 3

**Day Three**

A blizzard. Frigid air that whipped the skin and stung the eyes no matter how many layers of protective wool and cloth. It whistled through the timber of the house, shook the beams and tore through every room. 

Estinien crouched in the stone hearth alone, huddled in his blankets, the one place in the house where the wind was not so vicious. His parents slept, or at least lay in their bed in imitation of sleep, in the room to the south of the house and his brother he’d left in their shared bedroom on the floor above. He knew what was about to happen without even looking up from his knees. 

This was Ferndale’s last night. 

With the wind and snow roaring as it was it was no surprise that not one of the residents heard the beating wings or saw the great shadow of the approaching wyrm in time to evacuate. 

Estinien knew it was coming. He knew. But he was trapped in the mind of a child, the boy he had been, unable to do anything to stop it. He squeezed his eyes shut, listened to the blizzard and waited for it to happen. 

The heat was intense when it came, the sudden change from ice to flame stealing his breath away. His was not one of the houses to be lost in the first stream of fire. But that was worse, in a way. He heard the roar of Nidhogg. The screams of his victims. His family stirring in the sudden chaos. Felt the heat, intense and burning. 

The inferno consumed the village in a matter of moments. Estinien’s house was one of the last by his reckoning, a distant adult consciousness somewhere far away from the boy in the hearth. Perhaps it was that stone hearth that saved him. He was scarred from the ordeal, certainly, but he survived. He awaited the fire, the hell that would consume him in ways that left his flesh intact-

‘Hey.’

A whisper, little more than a breath, stemmed the fire. Estinien blinked up at the underside of the bunk above, a silhouette in the darkness. The sudden stillness was jarring, left him panting to ground himself and his heartbeat still loud in his ears. 

‘That was one hell of a dream you were having.’ Estinien turned his head to find Z’kila crouched at his bedside, whispering. The thought was slow to come to Estinien, but when it did he started to sit up and looked across at the other bunk in the room, fumbling in his panic. Z’kila seemed to know where he was looking and added, ‘I was awake before. You weren’t loud, don’t worry.’ 

Indeed, the shapes of both the boy and Ysayle were still, soft breaths floating in the space between them. Estinien looked at Z’kila. There was just enough light streaming through the shutters from the lantern outside the bunkhouse Marcechamp had been kind enough to provide them for the night for him to make out his expression. It was not mocking, as he first feared, but nor was he wearing his usual mask of neutrality. Instead what Estinien saw was open concern. Not worry exactly, nothing that demanded an explanation from him. That was just as jarring as the sudden awakening. 

‘Apologies for disturbing you,’ he whispered back, turning his gaze to the bunk above. He wished to use a tone far more coarse to stop him making that face at him but couldn’t bear the thought of waking the others as well. Z’kila was already too much. 

He caught the shrug out of the corner of his eye. ‘I was awake, like I said. Nothing to disturb.’ 

Z’kila didn’t leave. He stayed crouched there at his bedside, staring at Estinien. He felt it as though his eyes could burn a hole in the side of his face. He was in his bedwear so he had been at least resting. Estinien really didn’t want this attention, not now, not from him. ‘Don’t you have nightmares of your own to be getting back to?’ he hissed, turning over to face the wall and jerking the threadbare sheet up to his nose.

A beat, and then he heard Z’kila straighten up. ‘…Yes,’ he admitted at length. ‘Though I would much rather not.’ 

‘I will not relay mine to make yours seem palatable,’ Estinien snapped in a whisper, thrown by the unexpected confession but still conscious of their sleeping companions. 

Another moment of silence descended though Z’kila did not move, still hovering in place like a spectre. Estinien could feel his presence like a beacon at his back, almost as physical as the aether of Nidhogg’s eye. ‘Would that help you?’ the Warrior asked after a moment. ‘If I were to relay mine for you?’

Estinien had lashed out in an attempt to get Z’kila to leave him alone. He hadn’t realised there had been a hint of revelation in his words. What could he say now? To say he didn’t need help would sound insincere; to refuse it would be to admit he needed help at all. And to accept was beyond the realm of consideration. 

‘Do what you want,’ he decided on eventually, his voice coming out a gruff whisper. 

Z’kila hesitated for but a moment, a moment where Estinien thought he might just climb back into his bunk and leave him to stew on his memories. But then the thin mattress dipped near his feet as Z’kila sat down. 

‘…Before Operation Archon,’ he began quietly, his breath barely voiced at all, ‘I was killing monsters. Beasts. Beastmen if they were a threat. But when it came to people, men or women, I tried my damnedest not to kill them no matter how hard they tried to kill me. It just felt wrong to. Sometimes I didn’t manage it and they would die, but it was in self-defence. That’s how I justified it to myself at least.’

He paused and Estinien realised he was staring at the wall, listening intently to what words might come next.

‘But it was different when we infiltrated Castrum Meridianum. I didn’t care for the lives of my targets. They had done enough to deserve to die by all accounts. Rhitatyn sas Arvina. Gaius van Baelsar. Livia sas Junius. Especially her. She deserved everything she got after what she did at the Waking Sands. To my colleagues. To Noraxia.’ 

Estinien heard the clenching of his teeth as he spoke and glanced over his blanket where Z’kila sat. His silver irises gleamed in the low light, glaring at the floor and the memory of something grave and bloody. 

He shook his head slightly as though to dispel a mental picture. ‘But they weren’t the only ones I slew. I took down so many of the soldiers. Conscripts, most of them. Little more than civilians and not even Garlean. They were just doing a job. A job they’d probably been forced into, a life they never wanted or asked for. And I just…took it away from them. I wasn’t thinking of them as people, they were just obstacles between me and my targets and I didn’t care whether my blades killed them quickly or slowly or not at all. I can’t recall their faces when I wake but in the dreams they are so real, so vivid.’ 

He took a shaky breath and suddenly lightened his tone as much as he could while maintaining a whisper, looking over and catching Estinien watching him. ‘So, you know. Nightmares happen. It’s okay.’ 

_It’s okay._ Such a simple phrase that held so much comfort. Maybe it was the way he said it or the context of his admission that lightened the leaden weight in Estinien’s chest. The fear was still there, residual after the nightmarish memory, but lessened. Manageable.

‘You can’t save everyone,’ Estinien said, muttering into his blanket. ‘It doesn’t matter how many titles you’re given or how many honours thrown at you. You’re still one man.’ Almost as an afterthought he added, ‘There’s no shame in that.’ 

He closed his eyes to prevent himself looking to see if his words found their mark, but the soft exhale of a laugh seemed genuine enough. 

Z’kila stood from the bed and returned to crouch beside Estinien’s head. He could feel him there, a tangible presence. His voice belied the mischievous grin that shaped his words. ‘Think you’ll sleep better now? Want me to sing you a lullaby?’ 

Without opening his eyes Estinien reached out and shoved Z’kila’s face away. 

**Day Four**

‘Has it occurred to you that you may be sending Z’kila to his death?’ 

Where the outburst came from Estinien was not quite sure. They had presented their trade to the Vath, met with the dragon Vidofnir, and now they were stuck until the primal threat was dealt with. In order to continue their journey, to get anywhere close to Nidhogg’s lair, Z’kila had to face it. That should have been his focus: getting up the mountain by any means necessary. 

Z’kila looked similarly perplexed. He looked up at Estinien over Alphinaud’s shoulder from his seat while the boy tended to a gash that stretched from shoulder to elbow on his left arm. A wyvern had swooped down on him and knocked him from his chocobo on the path back from Anyx Trine. 

Alphinaud finished his incantation with a sigh and the worst of the bloody wound knitted itself back together. He had been mid-discussion with Ysayle about the Gnath’s summoning when Estinien interjected. ‘No. I—You have the right of it. Pray forgive me, Z’kila.’ 

But Z’kila barely spared him a glance and a shrug with his uninjured shoulder. ‘It needs to be done. I’ll do it.’ 

An awkward air descended between all four of them. Alphinaud embarrassed by his continued presumptuousness. Estinien uncomfortable by his own words. Z’kila surprised by them. Ysayle looking between the three of them like a spare part. The Vath scuttled around them making poor attempts to pretend not to listen in. 

‘Wait,’ said Ysayle. ‘I am also blessed with the Echo’s protection and need not fear primal influence. The two of us can face this foe together.’

‘Ha! Do you truly imagine yourself a second Warrior of Light?’ Estinien scoffed, his words running away from him once more. When three pairs of eyes turned on him once more he added swiftly, ‘Not that it matters. We know not where this god resides.’ 

When Alphinaud scampered off to question the Vath on this very issue and Ysayle followed after him, Estinien became once more aware of Z’kila’s eyes. He no longer looked confused. Alas that infuriating smirk was back but he offered no quip or jibe or derisive comment when Estinien stared back. 

‘The young lord certainly appears eager to prove his worth, does he not?’ Estinien commented when the silence stretched too thin, too brittle. 

‘Aye,’ Z’kila agreed. ‘But to whom is he proving it?’ 

**Day Five**

Estinien paced the length of the Loth ast Vath, taking care to keep his steps slow and measured. He didn’t want the boy to think him concerned for the welfare of their companions. Alphinaud stood at the western edge overlooking the southern plains towards Gnath territory, hadn’t moved since Z’kila and Ysayle set out at dawn. The last thing he needed was his stress added to by Estinien’s own. He wanted the boy to think him simply bored; which he was, in part. The day was nearing sunset and the pair of them had had little to do save wait and hope. 

Around noon Estinien had caved and offered to get the Vath more nanka meat as thanks for their continued hospitality, though it was as much for his own benefit. He was not one to sit on his laurels and let others take to the battlefield. That this was a fight he could not join had been difficult to stomach. Watching Ysayle head south at Z’kila’s side that morning while he had to wait behind with the boy had been like a kick to the gut. 

‘They return!’ the boy exclaimed from his post. 

Estinien allowed himself no more than a brisk walk over to see the approaching silhouettes of none other than Z’kila and Ysayle. The former strode onward with a gait that revealed a desire to hide the exact level of his exhaustion while the latter appeared somewhat contrite.

Z’kila made sure he had the comfiest spot of ground beside one of the Vath’s torches before he deigned to relay the day’s events. He was swift about his descriptions and neglected to exaggerate as Estinien had half expected him to. He acquiesced to Alphinaud’s pressing for detail as best as he was able and didn’t grumble about the excess questions. Estinien wished he would for once. The sheer number of them was exhausting in and of itself, let alone after one had just felled a god. 

‘“Lord Ravana,” you say?’ Alphinaud mused once satisfied. 

Ysayle added her own perspective of the battle with less enthusiasm, though she was rather gushing about Z’kila’s prowess which was, for some reason, difficult to listen to. 

‘Never did I doubt you,’ he said to prevent her from going on. ‘Unlike some. Master Alphinaud here nigh lost his wits with worry. Fretting like a maid for her sweetheart.’ Something of an exaggeration, but true nonetheless. A surprised grin chased away the fatigue in Z’kila’s expression as he looked from Estinien to Alphinaud. There was no mocking in his expression. Dare he say it, Estinien thought he might look a little abashed. 

The boy spluttered at him, horrified. 

It was perhaps a little cruel in retrospect. He certainly didn’t need the Lady Iceheart telling him so. Even Z’kila agreed it was a step too far in mocking the boy but there was less venom in his reprimand. And besides, Estinien couldn’t truly regret his words when Z’kila had looked so…surprised, and happy that someone had worried for him. Maybe he ought to hear such words more often. 

‘We should return to Vidofnir without delay!’ Alphinaud called out to them, apparently having packed up all of their supplies in the midst of his sulking. And he was still sulking, apparently. ‘Nidhogg’s minions will not be halted by idle chatter!’

And then he was gone, already on the path back to Anyx Trine. Estinien and Z’kila looked at each other. They were but a few bells from dusk. It would be surely very dark by the time they reached their destination, and with aevis and wyverns patrolling that tower it hardly seemed like a good idea.

Z’kila stretched and hopped back onto his feet. ‘A good thing I have decent night vision,’ he said before setting off to catch up with the boy, his tail swishing from side to side in a way that exaggerated the sway of his hips. 

Was he…wagging his tail?


	4. Chapter 4

**Day Six**

Z’kila scouted ahead up the slope of Sohm Al, slaying the nastier of the beasts before Estinien followed with the boy and the Lady in tow. All he saw of them were their corpses, some of them looking distinctly plant-like and oozing some kind of greenish slime from lethal wounds. There were all manner of Dravanians, too, the further they climbed, most of them either dead or fled. Estinien’s lance made short work of the few vicious dragonlings that had been missed.

They reconvened near the summit once the last of the dragons was slain. The first they saw of Z’kila again was to find him with his hand up to his chest, once more struggling to catch his breath. Alphinaud bolted to his side.

‘It’s nothing,’ Z’kila said once whatever ailed him had passed, dismissing his concern with an easy smile. Indeed, whatever it had been seemed to pain him no longer, as though nothing had happened at all. 

Estinien glanced around, his blood still thrumming fast in his veins and keeping him alert, though the platform offered no particularly helpful vantage point either up or down the slope. ‘’Twould seem that was the last. I sense no other dragons nearby.’ 

No sooner had the words left his mouth that a great roar seemed to shake the very foundations of the mountain. They braced themselves against the sudden sensory onslaught, staring upwards though the sound had no clear source. Nidhogg’s rage came through the eye but a moment later, a great wave of rage-filled aether that burned white-hot throughout Estinien’s entire being. He was used to the consistent seething, simmering rancour that he carried with him always, but the suddenness of this fresh bout of all-consuming fury knocked the breath from his lungs and the strength from his knees. It was as though the dread wyrm had only just awoken from a great slumber.

Getting the words out to warn the others was an arduous task. His vision blurring at the edges, he nearly missed the hand held out to him. Instinct nearly made him refuse outright, bat away Z’kila’s offer or else simply ignore it. But he hesitated, for whatever reason, before accepting. 

‘Fear not, I am yet my own master,’ he assured as Z’kila hauled him back onto his feet.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ was the response. 

Oh, but he would if only he knew, if he knew what had happened before when Estinien had let his guard down for just a moment. He had been terribly cautious ever since to prevent it happening again but nevertheless… There was an earnestness in Z’kila’s expression that Estinien wasn’t used to, so he strode on to avoid looking at it too closely. The miqo’te remained close at his side but said nothing more, reminding him awfully of another. 

The supposed sighting of a moogle was a…welcome distraction, once they reached the summit. 

But that they couldn’t find the creature led the boy to suggest he and Z’kila visit the Twelveswood, and that was less welcome. It meant more waiting around in a strange land, the heart of the Dravanians’ home no less. The burning aether bleeding through the eye continued unabated and he was not eager to let Nidhogg have more time. 

But alas, there seemed precious little else they could do. 

With Nidhogg’s attention firmly fixed on Estinien for now he thought it best to stay put. Joining Alphinaud and Z’kila in Gridania would risk bringing the eye too close to Ishgard. Any time they could buy was vital. 

…This also meant sharing company with Lady Iceheart while they awaited the return of their companions. 

**Day Seven**

Chores. Bloody—chores! 

That the Elder Seedseer had chosen to join them at the summit both humbled and filled him with gratitude for her aid; if friendly creatures lived here then days could be shaved off their hunt for Nidhogg’s more peaceful brood brother. 

His relief was short-lived.

Not only had the great fluffy winged cloud insulted him—and Z’kila—for the simple act of self-preservation, but then refused to point them in the direction of Hraesvelgr until this so called ‘Trial of Trustworthiness’ was complete. As if they had the luxury of time! Ishgard was on the brink of annihilation and these ratty little puffballs wanted them to fetch herbs or ‘chastise’ dragons- even after chastising them for that very act in the first place!

‘I can feel your annoyance from here,’ Z’kila called out to him, jogging to catch up near the cave’s entrance. 

‘And you seem to be remarkably unannoyed,’ Estinien noted over his shoulder. Z’kila’s face was open and smiling, ears pricked up and eyes glinting with something not unlike mischief. 

‘I’ve been around moogles enough to know that getting frustrated with them tends to make everything worse. Those of the Twelveswood are bad enough. I was roped into carrying some letters while the deputy postmoogle recovered from a run-in with a windmill sail and trust me that moogle did not suffer fools gladly. So much as a sigh from me tended to double my workload. It wasn’t that bad, though. I almost miss it. I still have the cap somewhere.’ 

Estinien blinked at him, not that Z’kila could see. ‘Indeed.’ 

‘My point is,’ Z’kila went on, leading the way out into the bright daylight, ‘that we may as well make some fun out of these trials, no? The chieftain will probably give us more to do if he thinks we’re angry about it.’

‘Your idea of fun unnerves me.’

One corner of Z’kila’s mouth of lifted to show his teeth in a daring smirk. ‘I bet I can finish mine before you do. Loser has to sleep next to Ysayle.’

Estinien’s cheek still smarted from the previous night. Apparently he’d shifted just a fraction too close to her in his sleep. Z’kila had nearly wet himself laughing when Estinien had to explain why a fresh bruise was blossoming beneath his eye. 

Still grinning, Z’kila turned on his heel and broke into a run towards whatever destination he’d been pointed in. Well. What childish nonsense. Of course Estinien was in a hurry to be done, this was his nation at stake. Was a silly bet going to spur him to work any faster?

…

Absolutely.

*

Z’kila was wrong. Showing that fuzzy chieftain the full extent of his anger—albeit accidentally—at being played with like dolls in a child’s bedroom had gotten them the horn that much faster. Or so Estinien liked to believe. Who knew how much longer the furry lump would have danced about otherwise? Perhaps moogles just didn’t find someone like Z’kila intimidating. 

But they were here now, the foot of Zenith in sight and Estinien felt a little calmer for it. The great cloud of wind and thunder to the east had not escaped his notice on the road. Should peace talks with Hraesvelgr fail, as he still expected they would, he had another destination to pursue. 

The fire crackled pleasantly in the silence. They had talked themselves to exhaustion over a humble supper (stewed tulihand), a few barbed comments shared here and there while Z’kila plucked idly at a lyre and their guide moogle was already snoring. 

‘Feel free to rest,’ Z’kila said to the group, voice low, once the conversation lulled. ‘I will take first watch.’ 

‘Z’kila, you did not win,’ Estinien reminded him before he could disappear to whatever vantage point he chose for the night. 

‘Yes, I did. I reached the Chieftain before you did.’ 

‘By cheating.’ 

‘I did not cheat.’ Z’kila scowled and put his hands on his hips. ‘I used a Far Eastern technique to cover ground more quickly.’

‘You disappeared in a puff of aether.’

‘It’s not my fault you didn’t think to leap or something.’ 

‘Regardless of what name you want to give it, using a trick like that clearly violates the rules of the bet-’

‘What rules? We never discussed any rules!’ 

Alphinaud and Ysayle swung their attention from one to the other as the argument continued, oblivious to what kind of bet may have been arranged between them. They had both spotted the Warrior of Light and the Azure Dragoon returning from their assigned trials at more or less the same time. They had spotted each other near the entrance to Moghome, hesitated with their eyes on one another as though gauging whether to call the other’s bluff. And then sprinted flat-out for the chieftain’s fluffy throne. It had seemed like Estinien’s longer stride would allow him to win by a margin, but Z’kila took victory from him by warping from the foot of the slope to the platform in the centre. 

‘Which is precisely why your victory should be forfeit!’ Estinien argued back. 

‘Alphinaud,’ Z’kila said, suddenly turning his irritable scowl on the boy. ‘You’re the smartest one here. What do you think? Can it be considered forfeit if it was never discussed before the bet?’ 

‘Um,’ said Alphinaud. ‘I’m not sure I would be able to make such a judgment without full context of the contest…’ 

Both Z’kila and Estinien glanced towards Ysayle and then at each other. 

‘A draw?’ Z’kila suggested.

‘Indeed.’ 

Ysayle turned a questioning gaze towards Alphinaud but he was no wiser of the conditions of this bet. It can’t have been anything particularly serious if they were both willing to forsake whatever the reward was supposed to be. 

‘Well,’ Z’kila said, snatching up his bow, ‘I’ll still take first watch.’ 

Estinien refrained from arguing again, but he did watch him leave with narrowed eyes. Every night, Z’kila would offer- nay, demand that he take first watch without fail, even after following what must have been a trying battle with Ravana. Estinien had thought it a mere quirk when first he noticed the regularity of his vigil; a measure of control in some small way. He could relate. But even during their nights at Tailfeather and Loth ast Vath when there was no need for a watch, Z’kila remained awake well into the night. Now Estinien began to suspect it wasn’t as voluntary as he first thought. 

Z’kila picked an ancient white plinth that had long since lost its pillar for his vigil and sat cross-legged on the jagged stone with his bow across his lap. Before long the boy and Ysayle settled for the night, content to leave Z’kila to watch over them, and Estinien tried to do the same. On the opposite side of the fire, of course. He removed his helm but kept the rest of his armour in place, not quite as comfortable as his companions out in the wilderness.

He tried to relax and let sleep come to him. Long after his companions’ breaths deepened in slumber and the fire burned low he was still peeking through his eyelashes towards their watchman. 

It wasn’t his fault, he told himself. His armour wouldn’t let him lie on his back and he couldn’t sleep facing the glaring light of the fire. Z’kila was just in his eyeline. 

His chocobo—Symphony he called her, her plumage as red as his hair—had gone to settle at the base of the plinth with her head resting beside his knee. With one hand he stroked her beak and clung to his bow with the other, eyes staring up at the silhouette of Zenith. There was a thoughtfulness to his expression that wasn’t, for once, accompanied by a frown. 

Estinien gave up when their guide moogle gave a particularly loud snore. He was too curious to sleep now anyway, so he wriggled out of his bedroll as silently as his armour allowed and crept towards Z’kila.  
The miqo’te flicked an ear back towards him to show that he heard his approach but didn’t look away from Zenith. He was humming a low melody to himself, Estinien realised, much too quiet to be heard from the camp. He had heard him sing many a silly shanty on their journey but this sounded like a ballad – and a familiar one at that, though the lyrics escaped him in that moment.

Z’kila cut himself off. ‘Nightmares?’ he asked, voice low, when Estinien was at his shoulder. 

‘…Not this night,’ Estinien replied. ‘Is there aught that ails you?’ 

Z’kila cast him a sideways glance. ‘My arm is fine. Alphinaud patched it up no problem,’ he said, appearing to misunderstand his meaning. Wilfully, perhaps. Indeed, the wound down his left arm was now no more than a thin red line that looked moons old rather than days. Clearly it hadn’t burdened him on the ascent up Sohm Al. 

‘What concerns you?’ Estinien asked instead, following his gaze up to the murky shape of the rising tower. ‘Don’t think to deny it. I have scarce seen such musings on the faces of esteemed philosophers.’  
His words drew a small but amused smile to Z’kila’s face. ‘Unfortunately my thoughts veer towards philosophy: many theories and few answers. Would that the Scions were around still to humour me.’ 

‘Well, I am no Scion,’ said Estinien, settling against the next pillar, ‘but I will lend you my ear. If that is agreeable.’ 

Z’kila raised an eyebrow at that. Estinien shrugged, feigning a modicum of disinterest. The chill of the night air was something of a comfort to his exposed head and face, which felt unusually warm under Z’kila’s scrutiny. He broke the stalemate with a short, quiet sigh and began to speak. ‘’Tis Ysayle that concerns me.’ 

Estinien glanced back towards the fire. Ysayle lay apart from the boy and rather close to the moogle. There was no indication that she was listening and they were speaking in low tones. ‘You and I both, adventurer.’ 

‘Yes, well,’ said Z’kila, ‘I don’t harvest quite the same level of hatred for Dravanians as yourself. Her relationship with Shiva concerns me far more than her love of dragons.’

The pain of admitting it Estinien felt almost on a physical level, but, ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’

Z’kila looked back at the campfire, confirmed Ysayle was unmoved, and then lowered his voice further. ‘You and I know that the chances of Hraesvelgr even entertaining Alphinaud’s suggestion long enough to hear his plea is next to nothing. I realise how optimistic Alphinaud is about this whole endeavour but that’s where his naivety ends: optimism. He isn’t certain of this path. Not like Ysayle is.’ 

A rustle in the undergrowth to the west caught their attention and halted the conversation. A sprite whistled through the undergrowth and then zipped away out of sight. Estinien settled back again, willing his heart to calm down. 

Z’kila took a deep breath as though to ground to himself before continuing. ‘She told the moogle chieftain that she is in no doubt that Hraesvelgr will welcome our overtures. How could she possibly know that? I mean, I know she met and spoke with him a while ago but that shouldn’t give her leave to know his will.’ 

‘Get to the point,’ Estinien said, bristling. 

‘Forgive me. I was musing aloud.’ Z’kila sighed. ‘She offers her body as a vessel for the primal Shiva which, I believe but don’t know for certain, requires less aether than conjuring a physical form from nothing. Regardless she still needs crystals to maintain the form. But in inviting Shiva unto herself, I worry that she has mistaken the primal for the woman of history.’ 

The pieces fell into place in Estinien’s mind all at once. ‘She believes she harbours the soul of the very same elezen woman that brought peace between man and dragon over a thousand years ago?’

Z’kila met his eye and gave a half-hearted shrug. ‘So I have surmised thus far. I may be wrong. I certainly hope so.’ 

‘And, supposing you aren’t,’ Estinien continued, ‘I don’t suppose it’s conceivable that she’s correct? If her tale is true than having Hraesvelgr’s beloved on side might make this venture slightly less impossible.’ 

‘I was hardly Minfilia’s idea of an aspiring pupil,’ Z’kila said with a humourless laugh, ‘but I did pick up something from her many lectures. No, it isn’t possible. Primals are manifestations of yearning and prayer. Together with her heretics Ysayle summoned her idea of Shiva.’ 

‘Hm,’ Estinien grunted, for there was little else to say. ‘If your theory proves true Hraesvelgr may sooner scorn than welcome us.’ 

Z’kila nodded, grimacing. ‘Then let us hope it does not.’ 

They remained in silence for a time, staring up at the point where Zenith disappeared into the fog. But, as always, Estinien found his gaze wandering east to area he knew the cloud Nidhogg’s brethren resided. It was in touching distance, so tempting. A little patience, that was all he needed now. A little patience for the hope of a peaceful resolution to be thwarted and his vengeance quenched. 

‘Should the morrow’s events take the turn we expect,’ Estinien said into the still night, ‘can I still depend on your blades?’ 

A beat of hesitation and then Z’kila said, ‘Of course.’ 

‘Then I will rest easy.’ Estinien shrugged away from the pillar. ‘Assuming you will not?’ 

A little self-deprecating smile was all the answer he received but Z’kila made no move to get down from his plinth, and so Estinien presumed his suspicions correct. For one insane instant he considered returning the favour of easing the hauntings of his dreams the way Z’kila had done for him, but quickly dismissed the idea, striding back to his bedroll before his night-addled mind could come up with any other ridiculous ideas.

**Day Eight**

The mood was sombre as the group, reduced to a trio as they had left a broken and despondent Ysayle behind at Zenith, made their way east led by a determined Azure Dragoon. The boy’s disappointment permeated the air but did little to dampen Estinien’s anticipation. 

No, the only distraction now was a certain miqo’te. 

_‘There runs the hound and he’ll tell you true_  
_What those soldiers think of me and he of you,_  
_When another offers meat that smells more sweet_  
_He will slip his chain and-’_

‘Z’kila, _shut up!’_


	5. Chapter 5

**Day Eleven**

For two full days Estinien stood with Nidhogg’s lair in sight, the barrier of wind aether preventing him from getting anywhere close. No word from Alphinaud or Z’kila since they left in search of the Ironworks genius. He could hear Nidhogg within, rumbling with fury, and felt it too as his aether bled through the eye. 

For two days he stood, he watched, he paced while he awaited news of any potential way through that barrier, that blasted barrier that prolonged his wait. 

At the end of those two days, however, he could feel his resolve slipping. The rage of the eye crept up his spine once more, wriggled its way into his head and left him growling and baring his teeth with not his own anger but Nidhogg’s. A white, seething anger that consumed every fibre of his being from the ground up. When he caught himself he turned on his heel and ran as fast as his legs could carry him away from that onslaught of influence. There was no adventurer to knock sense into him this time, and no Z’kila to do the same. If they were to infiltrate the Aery, he needed to be clear-headed and well within his own mind. 

If that meant retreating to Ishgard for the time being, so be it. There was no one around to witness this minor defeat and his wounded pride felt somewhat soothed by that knowledge. 

He was resting in the drawing room of Fortemps Manor when Z’kila made his reappearance, the shadows beneath his eyes a little darker than he remembered. ‘Have you settled your obligations?’ he asked before Z’kila could voice the quip he spotted playing around his mouth.

‘Oh, you know,’ he said, collapsing onto the nearest couch. ‘Just popped into Ul-dah to awaken Her Majesty. And returned by way of Mor Dhona. Your average day-journey.’ He let his head loll back and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. ‘What of you? Grow bored with the view in the Mists?’ 

‘I saw no reason to tarry when I heard these “manacutters” were near completion.’ A small lie; he hadn’t heard about them until his return. 

Z’kila hummed his acknowledgement, looking near enough sleep already. He blew out a sigh, eyebrows creasing. ‘I suppose you want to get straight to it?’

‘Might we not unfold our plans to Ser Aymeric in the meantime? I believe he has been kept in the dark long enough.’ 

‘Right you are,’ said Z’kila, though the brief hesitation before his words belied some measure of doubt. Nevertheless, he hopped back onto his feet, coat tails swaying, and eyes shining beneath his black headband. ‘I suppose I can sleep when I’m dead,’ he grumbled as he strode past Estinien. 

Despite his mood the walk down to Foundation and the Congregation of the Knights Most Heavenly could not be called tense. The shadows of fatigue on Z’kila’s face were still present but there was also a sternness there, a tightness in his features that bespoke his anticipation for battle. Estinien could respect that. 

The knight standing guard at the Seat of the Lord Commander glanced between them when they approached, took note of Z’kila’s expression and opened the gate for them without one word having to be spoken. Z’kila saluted him as they passed. 

Aymeric had been alerted to their arrival, it seemed. The Lord Commander sat back in his seat with his hands closed into fists in his lap and watched them enter, his face set and almost as stern as Z’kila’s. He said not one word. Bright icy blue eyes bore into Estinien’s visor, awaiting for his report. All business. There was no time for pleasantries, not with Nidhogg’s presence hovering on the very border. The wyrm was not interested in attacking just yet...not yet. Estinien could feel it. 

‘All stands ready, Lord Commander,’ he announced. They were not friends here. Not even men; just soldiers. 

The door behind them opened again to admit Master Alphinaud before Aymeric could answer. Because Fury forbid Z’kila go anywhere without his mouthpiece. Z’kila’s thoughts on the late arrival were absent from his face. Perhaps he had no opinion to express on this particular matter. That was somehow more infuriating next to Estinien’s own irritation. 

He took the lead in explaining their adventure and, surprisingly, the boy let him. Z’kila, as always, only added to Estinien’s tale when asked. 

He shot down both Aymeric’s and Alphinaud’s attempts at joining them with candid fervour. He was aware how much his words hurt them both, but they were true. Better alive with smarting prides than scorched to ash in Nidhogg’s lair. 

Not that he needed any validation, but somewhere at the back of his mind Estinien appreciated the tiny, almost imperceptible nod that Z’kila showed him as they made their way outside, just the pair of them. Slaying Nidhogg within his own lair was an impossible enough task without the added concern of a novice spellcaster, and Ishgard may as well burn if Aymeric wasn’t there to guide her. Night was already falling but Z’kila said nothing about it, striding straight towards the Manufactory. Estinien kept pace. Neither of them had much love for rest anyway.

The flight back into the Mists was tense and silent for the most part. The journey was a great deal quicker than travelling on foot and the manacutters’ flight operation was simple to grasp. They spoke only to alter course or point out hovering members of Nidhogg’s brood. They were being watched, that much was obvious, but not one wyvern or aevis attempted an attack. 

That is, until they reached the barrier. 

The manacutters made short work of the intense aether, cutting through like it was little more than a gusting breeze. The gloom melted away to reveal the intricacies of the dread wyrm’s lair, an amalgamation of purple corrupted crystal and ancient elezen architecture. Somewhere at the back of his mind, behind the focus on imagining the feel of his lance sinking into that remaining eye, Estinien was surprised Nidhogg had chosen to make his lair somewhere so obviously touched by his ancestors. He found himself glancing sideways at Z’kila to see if he had made the same observations. 

His miqo’te companion had indeed noticed the ancient and blackened statues, examining them with narrowed eyes as they passed, but turned his head to meet Estinien’s gaze like he felt the sudden attention. 

Estinien looked away quickly. He had but a moment to wonder at himself before a horde of Dravanians emerged from between the crystals. Wyverns, amphipteres, even little dragonlings surged at them. 

‘Watch out!’ Estinien called, yanking on the manacutter’s levers to dodge the maw of a particularly large wyvern. They split apart and came together again, suffering bites and scratches to the bodies of their small airships, trying their damnedest to keep the sails untorn. 

They fought their way towards the peak of the Aery this way, ducking and diving as fast as the clever little machines could take them. They were almost there, the topmost platform in sight-

‘Estinien!’ Z’kila cried out just as the entire world around them grew dim. They were cast in shadow, and Estinien’s heart dropped into his stomach as he realised _whose_ shadow. A white, seething rage surged from the eye of the like Estinien had never felt before and he struggled to catch his breath, to grab hold of the right lever and push his manacutter faster as the Aery beneath them began to glow with the intense light of a small sun. 

Z’kila couldn’t get away fast enough. The fireball hit the back off his manacutter and sent him spiralling off course. 

_No!_ Estinien abandoned the controls and twisted around to watch the other manacutter plummet. Whether it landed or Z’kila regained control he never saw, because Nidhogg’s face was suddenly the only thing in his view; mouth open, aetheric fire building at the back of his throat. 

The eye hurt to touch, seemed to sear the very fringes of his own aether, but Estinien’s anger powered him through the pain as he grabbed ahold of it. He took back control of the manacutter with his free hand and held the eye back at Nidhogg. The sudden direct line of sight with its master caused an aetheric surge that halted his attack before the fire could leave his jaws. 

Nidhogg roared, pain and anguish and sheer rage made manifest in the words spoken in the Dravanian tongue that Estinien could nevertheless understand. He pushed onward to the peak, urging his manacutter on and gaze downward, darting all over every surface in search of Z’kila, alive or otherwise. 

No sign. He was lost among the tendrils of corrupted crystal, and Nidhogg was soaring closer. 

There was nothing for it but to trust in the Warrior of Light’s survival luck. Estinien grit his teeth, forced his gaze forward and pushed upward to the peak shrouded in Nidhogg’s shadow. 

He rounded a crystal spike, the shining purple surface turning a strange hue of orange as his pursuer drew in breath for another attack. Estinien felt the intense heat at his back, sensed through the eye an instant before the moment Nidhogg released the ball of fire, knew its exact trajectory. 

Estinien thought about jumping clear to the platform several fulms below for just a moment too long. The fire struck the starboard side of the manacutter. The metal of his armour seared with the heat, burning through the flimsy protective underclothes as the machine capsized and catapulted him out.

Roaring against the agonising heat and clinging to the eye, Estinien landed heavily on one side and tumbled into an unceremonious heap at the top of a stone staircase. His right knee screamed at him. His armour was still burning and, though a secondary concern, scuffed to the hells and back. The ground rocked as Nidhogg landed on the other side of the platform, wings half extended and poised to pounce. The great dragon leered at Estinien across the short distance. 

The Azure Dragoon gritted his teeth and got to his feet, pulling his lance from his back. 

He gripped the dread wyrm’s eye in one hand and Gae Bolg in the other. He was without the Warrior of Light; this was everything he had in the world to exact his vengeance. Would it be enough? It had to be. Aetheric fire built up in Nidhogg’s maw, lighting the many rows of jagged teeth from behind, and the dragon pounced. 

Estinien was ready for it. He threw himself to the side, rolling underneath a set of huge swiping claws that audibly cut through the air where he had been just an instant before, felt the heat of the fiery explosion as it spread across the blackened stone. Estinien skidded as he turned around, the eye held up in direct sight of its master and his grip readied on his lance. The empty socket in the dragon’s skull was his mark: with the eye in his control all he had to do was get close enough for one well-aimed thrust. 

Nidhogg roared, rage and anguish shaping words in the dragon tongue. 

Estinien's knees buckled under the strain of those words, words he understood on some level beneath the layers and layers of aetheric interference through the eye. His injured leg collapsed. Gae Bolg clattered to the ground.

'No…' he growled, forcing himself up and dragging his lance with him. He did not make it all the way here for his body to break and his mind to bend now. He fought through the fog of rage that was not entirely his own, though the boundary between Nidhogg's rancour and Estinien's grew ever more indistinct. 

He managed to get back up to one knee before Nidhogg was on him again, flames licking at his teeth. Estinien flattened himself against the stone as a single swipe from a claw whistled over his head, taking one of the horns of his helm with it. 

Still on the ground, Estinien lifted the eye and felt the pulse of aether release. Nidhogg roared again, an awful ear-splitting sound as he shook his head free of the mind-numbing energies. He backed up to the other side of the platform one great step at a time. 

Even the least talented of minstrels often portray battle as a dance of skill and wit. This was nothing of the sort. 

This was an exchange of stumbling, staggering power, between Nidhogg battling the aetheric pulsing of his own eye in the grip of the Azure Dragoon and Estinien doing his damnedest to dodge every ball of fire, snap of jaw and swipe of claw. His knee throbbed with every movement. Gae Bolg remained tightly in his grasp though it was apparent he had no chance of landing even a glancing blow like this. 

And Nidhogg was beginning to resist the effects of his eye. 

Estinien couldn't fall here, not so close to tasting his revenge. 

He was stuck, once again near the top of the blackened stone staircase, down on one knee and unable to gather the strength to get back to his feet. He had only the energy to keep the eye up. Every pulse needed to be stronger to keep the dragon on his guard, needed more time to build up the aether. Estinien panted with the effort, with the pain, against the heat. 

On the fringes of his vision, in the shadowed edges of his visor, a blurring silhouette flitted by. With some effort, Estinien lifted his head. 

_Z’kila._

The Warrior stood before him, between he and Nidhogg like a small bodyguard. He was spattered with blood from the tips of his ears all the way down to his tail, the hem of his coat torn and singed in places, his daggers drawn and crackling with lightning-aspected aether. 

‘Apologies for the delay,’ the miqo’te called back to him, unable to hide his own panting. 

Had Estinien been more in his own mind he would have made every attempt to quash the way his heart surged at the sight of his companion. Evidently it had been something of a battle to get here but he was still thrumming with strength and adrenaline. 

Nidhogg took one glance at the arrival of a second adversary and growled deep in his chest, his teeth beginning to glow with the build up of fiery breath. 

Z’kila darted aside, leaving a glimpse of his aetheric shadow behind before it vanished. He was fast; inhumanly so, and unburdened by the weight of the eye he could get in close to Nidhogg before the dragon could release the fire. He hopped up the dragon’s foreleg with nary a step, thrusting one of his blades between Nidhogg’s shoulder blades. Nidhogg roared and rose up on his hind legs to dislodge him. The dagger couldn’t plunge deep enough to do any real damage. 

This was a distraction, Estinien realised, and refocused all of his efforts on the eye, lending his own aether to speed up the next pulse of aether. 

Nidhogg was not stupid. He was one of Midgardsormr’s brood after all; he knew what Estinien was doing and kept trying to turn his attention to him instead. But Z’kila was just enough of a threat to keep him occupied after he thrust his dagger right at his empty eye socket and missed by mere ilms. He lost the dagger between tough black scales and ran so fast to avoid snapping jaws he seemed to warp. Maybe he did. Estinien didn’t know how these Far Eastern techniques worked. 

Estinien was still largely incapacitated, the eye his only weapon. Z’kila was down to one blade. Nidhogg was bleeding. 

The dragon turned his great ugly head towards Z’kila, crouched and ready to dodge another attack, and spat words of incantation in the dragon tongue. Aether swirled around Z’kila, locking his arms to his sides and lifting him off the ground, forcing him to drop his remaining dagger. He struggled, legs flailing, his expression giving away his pain. He was caged. 

Nidhogg turned back to Estinien, sneered, and took flight. 

_No!_ Estinien lurched forward and nearly toppled over. He couldn’t escape now! They were too close to ending this. One of them was going to die _here and now!_

In his aetheric cage Z’kila thrashed as much as his binds allowed, tail whipping and legs kicking. Nidhogg hovered out of reach, his wings battering them with wind with every flap as he roared out a summons. His minions crawled over the rock, over the crystal: aevis, drakes, wyverns, dragonlings, even full-fledged dragons. Estinien had not the strength to fight them. 

They roared, squeaked, squealed as they approached. A dragonling nipped at Z’kila’s boots and got a harsh kick to the snout for its trouble. Everything else made straight for Estinien. 

He lifted his lance and lashed out at the wyvern that swooped down at him. The eye burned in his other hand, a distracting pain crawling up his arm. The dragonlings he could brush off as they hunted for cracks in his armour. He avoided the snapping fangs of a drake by thrusting his lance between its jaws and through the back of its skull. Trying to release it from the corpse proved more difficult; teeth and claws scraped his armour, catching the gaps in the joints and drawing blood. He could handle the little ones. Scalekin he could fight in his sleep, drained or no. 

Taking down a great ice dragon while he was injured and almost deplete of his aether, however…

Ice shot across the ground from the dragon’s feet, spiking on the scorched stone and curling up Estinien’s greaves, a freezing kind of burn immediately following the intense heat of fire breath. A strange fear took hold of him that his armour might crack under the sudden opposing extremes in temperature.

The dragon raised its head, ice beginning to form on his teeth.

Z’kila landed square on top of its head, snapping its jaws together, and thrust his blade into its eye. The dragon screamed, coating Estinien in nothing but dragon-drool, and collapsed sending the miqo’te tumbling from his perch. Z’kila rolled back onto his feet and scurried to Estinien’s side, hands hurriedly forming unfamiliar gestures and then he was breathing fire. 

_Breathing fire._

Dragonlings squealed and scattered, scales burning. An already wounded wyvern collapsed under the heat. Flames flickered across the ice dragon’s corpse. 

Nidhogg hovered above and now that the immediate threat was dealt with Estinien realised the dread wyrm had been casting, speaking words he couldn’t understand and the power of the incantation was palpable. ‘Z’kila!’ Estinien called, the eye vibrating with unleashed power. Z’kila didn’t question him, just darted back to his side and crouched at his flank as the aetheric shield burst from the eye a moment before Nidhogg completed his cast. 

The air itself seemed to dissipate under the spell; the bodies of Nidhogg’s dead minions and even those of ones still living disintegrated. There would have been no surviving that without the eye. Estinien heard Z’kila’s breath catch, a subtle sound that nevertheless had him shivering. 

Nidhogg roared, a sound that shook the foundations of reality and Z’kila gripped his ears like it hurt him. The great dragon gave one great flap of his wings and dove at them. Estinien grit his teeth and urged another pulse of energy from the eye, power and pain enough to throw him off course and land clumsily on the stone just fulms away. 

_‘Mine essence claimed thee once, dragoon…and shall do so again!’_ Nidhogg spat in the tongue of dragons that could regardless be understood. 

Estinien smiled—a manic smile that contained all of his anger, his childhood fear, his ceaseless thirst for vengeance. He could feel Z’kila’s gaze on him, still crippled by the roar. ‘This ends here,’ he said, low and soft, and set the eye back in its pouch. Whether he was speaking to Nidhogg or himself or Z’kila was unclear and hardly mattered. 

Nidhogg snapped. Estinien jumped. 

Landed spear-point first into the back of the dragon’s skull. 

It was everything he could do just to cling on to a protruding spike as Nidhogg screamed and took flight, to ready his lance for another blow. He aimed for the one remaining eye and gouged it out in the manner Haldrath did so many centuries ago. Allegedly. Estinien couldn’t deny his doubt of the age-old tales any longer. 

The eye came loose with a veritable waterfall of blood, dousing Estinien from head to foot, and with one final cry Nidhogg went limp and began to fall. 

Estinien jumped away and watched the corpse plummet and heard the deafening thump as he landed somewhere in the gloom far below. He landed deftly back on the platform where Z’kila awaited him, a grin on his mouth that seemed to make his silver eyes shine. He was still panting. A bruise the size of a lily was beginning to blossom across one bare shoulder and Estinien noticed now that a considerable amount of the blood across his coat was probably his own. 

Z’kila took a breath, praise or mockery on his tongue, but whatever it had been was lost as his body convulsed. He fell to one knee with a strangled groan, one hand clutching at his chest.

Estinien hurried to his side, still clutching the yellow eye he had torn from Nidhogg’s skull. ‘What ails you friend?! Are you wounded?’

Whatever pain wracked him eased quite suddenly and he breathed deeply, shaking his head like a hound and blinking hard. ‘I’m all right,’ he muttered. ‘But Haldrath, he forsook the mantle of king to hunt dragons as penance—and all but four of his knights refused to rule Ishgard… Fortemps, Haillenarte, Durendaire, Dzemael. They were only four of many. The only four to take up the mantle of stewards to an empty throne.’ 

He was babbling slightly, the words stiff and awkward like they were forcing themselves out without his permission. Estinien rocked back on his heels at the onslaught of information. 

‘And Haldrath, he...tore out both of Nidhogg’s eyes,’ Z’kila went on. ‘Which makes _that…?’_

Together they turned their attention to the yellow eye, so clearly not alike to the crimson orb in Estinien’s possession. 

Nidhogg was dead or would be soon. His eye, stuck in its pouch at Estinien’s hip, continued to bleed with the same consuming rage as it had done before and for all the years he had carried it with him. Mayhap now it would ease some. The yellow eye, on the other hand, did not bleed with any such rancor. There was power, yes, thrummed with it. But no anger, no rage, no ceaseless thirst to exact pain and suffering. 

‘Then where is the other?’ Estinien asked, turning his gaze back on Z’kila, who could do nothing but shrug.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the final chapter and, as promised, here's the sex. I don't recommend you read if you're not into two men getting it on because it gets explicit. I've not shared this kind of writing before so apologies in advance.

**Day Twelve**

As much as Estinien wished to make straight for Ishgard and tell Aymeric the tale of their success (with a few embellishments), he and Z’kila were in agreement that Hraesvelgr had not told them the complete truth. Before Ishgard could recover they had to know the whole story. 

Nevertheless...a rest was in order before they went anywhere. Returning from the Aery via recovered manacutters, they set up a small camp on the ancient fort overlooking the lair. The tulihands that had swarmed the old stone were gone, perhaps scattered sensing the demise of the dread wyrm. Once the tent was up Z’kila tried to shepherd Estinien to rest while he kept watch. 

But Estinien was more restless than ever. 

He should have been happy- or relieved at the very least. He expected the eye to maintain its power and vitality apart from its living host, but did not expect the ceaseless rage to continue unabated, not dampened even slightly. There was no relief or joy to be had in the completion of his life’s mission; only more anger. And he could no longer tell whether it was Nidhogg’s or his own. 

So they sat before a hastily constructed campfire in front of an unused tent for the first few bells of the early morning. Z’kila draped his tail over his lap while he took a brush to the coarse fur, a brush apparently uniquely designed for miqo’te tails. Trying to get rid of the worst of the blood before it matted, Z’kila said, though they both knew it was an excuse to put off sleep. Any other day and Estinien would have been rough in pointing this out, but his mind was too strained for petty teasing. Besides, there was something soothing about watching the repetitive motion of his brushing.

‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a man breathe fire before,’ Estinien said when the silence turned from comforting to crushing. ‘Not one that hasn’t partaken in dragon’s blood, at least.’

Z’kila paused before he answered. Estinien expected a quip in response, but didn’t get one. ‘It’s a skill that summons fire from the land around me. I’m not actually breathing fire. Just looks that way.’ 

‘You would be branded a heretic and thrown into Witchdrop without a trial if anyone in Ishgard saw you.’

‘I’m aware. Which is why I haven’t done it there.’ 

The red fur on his tail was beginning to take on a slight glean from the brush strokes. There was no blood left to be brushed out. With a low sigh Z’kila flicked it off his lap and bent down to put the brush back in his pack. His coat fell open a little and revealed a fair strip of skin around his middle, showing off the jut of hip bone that was just prominent enough to be easy to grip-

Estinien blinked hard and forced his gaze forwards. Where had _that_ thought come from? 

Oblivious, Z’kila stood from his perch and stretched his arms up, groaning as his spine crackled with the movement and his tail curled over with the satisfaction. The sound did nothing to alleviate the unexpected direction of Estinien’s thoughts.

‘May as well try to sleep or else we’re just wasting time here,’ Z’kila grumbled, shucking off his coat before ducking through the tent’s curtain. 

Estinien was grateful for the moments he had to himself in order to shed his armour. As much as he wanted to keep watch for any avenging wyrmlings, he sensed none nearby and they both were in desperate need of rest after such a battle. He took his time with the straps and buckles on his armour, letting the chill cool down his face. He didn’t want to look too closely at the cause of such thoughts—directed at the smart-mouthed sulky excuse for Hydalyn’s chosen, for the love of the Fury!

‘Um,’ was the first thing that greeted him when he ducked into the tent. Z’kila was down to his sleeveless undershirt and smalls on his knees, which did nothing to help Estinien’s predicament. He even looked bashful, an expression he wasn’t used to seeing on that face. His legs were covered in fresh wounds that ranged from scratches to deep gashes, still bleeding in places. ‘So I forgot the bedrolls.’ 

‘...You—_what?’_

‘I’m sorry.’ He clung to a roll of white fur in his lap and lifted it up like it was some kind of apology offering. ‘But I had a sheet so we aren’t lying on the rock and I have this so we won’t freeze.’

The thought of sharing a blanket with Z’kila flashed through Estinien’s head and he decided he would rather freeze on the bare rock. But that would take too many excuses and explaining and he couldn’t face that either. 

They lay back to back, almost but not quite touching. Z’kila had pressed his frozen foot into Estinien’s calf just once but kept to himself after Estinien dug his elbow between his shoulder blades. Estinien didn’t sleep. Every muscle was coiled to spring, against a swarm of scalekin or away from his inexplicably distracting companion. The eye continued to bleed into him from his pack, seething rage and a maddening kind of desire for death, destruction and suffering. 

He realised he was trembling and clenched his hands into fists. Z’kila’s tail kept lightly brushing his legs beneath the polar bear hide, the fur irritating his ankles. He was the one that wanted to sleep. It was his fault they were stuck so close together in the middle of Dravanian territory. Now he thought of it, it was his fault, too, that all these confusing and conflicting thoughts were now plaguing Estinien when all he wanted in the world was rest; walking with swaying hips, leaving his coat and undershirt only half-buttoned to reveal a hint of his navel. The more Estinien thought on it, in fact, the more Z’kila’s every move the last half-moon seemed purposefully sultry. 

Challenging him, trying to break him somehow.

Estinien lurched up and reached for the offending miqo’te in question, only to stop ilms from his shoulder when he heard what could only be described as a whimper. 

He had assumed Z’kila to be awake, like usual, listening to Estinien inner turmoil like he had orchestrated the entire thing. But he was quite clearly sleeping, and just as clearly suffering. His fingers twitched and trembled on the white fur. His entire form tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed. His teeth ground together. 

Estinien knew exactly what the nightmare was and that made it harder to watch somehow. Z’kila was haunted by his own guilt, so much so that he barely slept; he had survived the battle with Nidhogg on weeks, moons, of just a few bells of sleep a night, assuming he slept at all. 

And why should that make Estinien hesitate?

Anger propelled him forward. He gripped Z’kila’s shoulder with a bruising grasp and shoved him onto his front. A strangled cry escaped the Warrior as Estinien pinned him down with his own weight, yanking on his wrists and pinning his forearms to the small of his back. The way he thrashed and squirmed for those first few seconds, still delirious from the nightmare, was immensely satisfying and made the fire inside Estinien purr. His feet fought against the tangle of the hide, his tail whipping about wildly and smacking the elezen on the back and shoulders.

‘Are you _happy?!_’ Estinien roared, eyes burning into the back of Z’kila’s head. ‘You have my attention _now!_ Is this what you wanted?!’

‘...What?’ Z’kila asked on a breathless exhale, turning to stare over his shoulder. 

‘_All_ this time you have _pushed_ and _pushed_ me. Why would you tell me about your nightmares?! Why would you risk your life for _my_ vengeance? _Why?_ What was in this for you? Was it so important for you to win?!’

‘What game? What are you talking about?’ 

He was no longer panicking but certainly wasn’t calm. For the first time Estinien could see confusion and a hint of fear writ plainly on his face—and couldn’t trust it. Z’kila was a master of shadows, of masks, of illusion. There had been some ulterior motive at play during this venture. There had to have been. He hadn’t believed in a peaceful resolution, had expected this to end in no other way than bloodshed. He had willfully risked everything to follow Estinien into the Aery when he could have aided Ishgard against a siege far more effectively. _Why?_

‘Estinien?’ Z’kila asked, a wavering note in his voice that broke the Azure Dragoon more than any fang or claw could. 

His strength left him. The all-consuming hate that fuelled him: gone. The anger remained, a red-hot flame that would shatter rather than temper a blade. He clung to Z’kila’s arms still, less aggressively than desperately, a contact that grounded him even as he collapsed forward and pressed his forehead between the smaller man’s shoulder blades. 

‘It plagues me still,’ he lamented quietly, the confession pulling itself from his lips without permission. ‘His rage, his thirst for blood and suffering, it has not left me.’

Z’kila relaxed as much as he was able, pinned as he was. ‘The relief you sought has been denied you,’ he translated, voice low and soothing, as though that explained everything. ‘The war is not yet won, my friend. Let it drive you as it did before to see its conclusion.’

Estinien gritted his teeth and pulled on Z’kila’s arms, relishing the way he flinched. ‘The war. _My war,_ Ishgard’s war. Not yours,’ he hissed. ‘What possible reason could you have to risk everything for a nation that shunned you and yours in Eorzea’s time of need, other than- than-’

The side of Z’kila’s face that Estinien could see grimaced. ‘_You and yours,_ he says,’ he muttered, voice strained from the way his shoulders protested. ‘At the time of the calamity I was no one without a people. Everyone talks about the Eorzean Alliance like they are all _my_ nations, _my_ homes. And that might be true for the Scions but not I. Besides,’ he flicked an ear back, narrowly missing Estinien’s cheek, ‘we aren’t talking about me right now.’ 

‘Oh, are we not?’ Estinien challenged. 

‘I empathise, truly, that you did not get the closure you wanted,’ Z’kila ground out, ‘but I fail to see how this helps.’ He managed to wriggle with some effort to make his point. ‘If it’s relief you want then go ahead and take it.’ 

‘What in the Fury’s name are you suggesting?’ Estinien growled. 

The one eye he could see pierced him, the feline pupil cutting into him like no other could. ‘The relief you wanted was denied you, was it not? Is that not why you have me pinned like this?’ He huffed and turned to rest on his chin. ‘This is the mother of all mixed signals.’

Estinien thought to grab hold of him and shake until he explained himself but Z’kila shifted against his grip and a spike of sensation sparked across his groin.

He froze.

He was hard.

And pressed right against Z’kila’s rear with nothing but the flimsy linen of their underclothes between them. There wasn’t a chance he hadn’t noticed. He had Z’kila pinned beneath almost the entire length of his body with his arms pulled back. He didn’t know what had made him grapple him this way; the hatred that had built up had simply exploded and attacked the nearest creature capable of pain. Perhaps relief was what that disembodied hate was looking for and sought to take it from Z’kila, for Estinien couldn’t find it within himself now. No, forcing himself on the Warrior would not ease his suffering. Apart from the sheer loathsomeness of the act, it would prove nothing. Nothing but that Estinien was a mere slave to the power of the eye. 

He was overcome with the urge to leap away and throw himself off the nearest cliff from shame, equally from the direction his thoughts had taken as the state of his body. But Z’kila shifted again, another spark of sensation that made his mind short-circuit before he could put that plan into action. 

‘It would hardly be a first for me if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Z’kila said quietly, and when Estinien glanced up he found him smiling; not quite a smirk but teasing nonetheless. ‘Unless you don’t think you’re up for it?’

‘I am _up_ well enough, thank you,’ Estinien snapped. 

It drew a surprised, scandalous laugh from Z’kila that was...strangely pleasant. Not satisfying exactly but something like it; a water droplet that soothed the flames rather than a gust that stoked it. 

Estinien’s mind flitted back to the instant beside the fire, the way Z’kila’s coat had fallen open over his hip. The same hip was beneath him now and he felt a flutter of something in his gut. Shamefully aware that Z’kila still had one eye on him, he moved his free hand to that hip and closed his fingers around it, feeling the jut of bone and, oh, how perfectly it felt against his palm. The olive skin was warm, pliant. This alone was almost enough. 

But not quite.

He moved his grip on Z’kila from his forearms to his wrists to ease some of the pressure on his shoulders and climbed up on his knees to straddle his middle before returning to grab hold of that hip, enjoying the way Z’kila arched a little into it. 

‘Been a while, has it?’ Estinien drawled. 

‘I’m not doing this for me,’ the Warrior quipped back, but the blush that pooled across his cheek answered the question. 

‘Your altruism certainly is famed across the land,’ Estinien teased and got a smack from Z’kila’s tail across his spine. He lost interest in mockery, too distracted by the strip of skin above his smalls. Having him pinned and writhing a little under his touch aroused sparks of heat deep in his belly. His mind conjured images unbidden, of pulling Z’kila back onto him, holding his rear flush against his hips, reducing this usually stoic man to a mewling, pleasured mess. 

Causing pain would grant Estinien no relief; anyone was capable of that. Beasts were capable of that. But causing pleasure...that was the level of autonomy he yearned for. In that moment there was nothing else on this star that he wanted. 

Rational thought long since overshadowed by desire for control as well as the lust for simple contact, Estinien urged Z’kila to lift his hips and gather his knees underneath him. Z’kila complied without complaint, without taunting him, and his silence gave Estinien pause. A sliver of rationality crept back into the forefront of his mind. 

‘If you don’t want this, say now,’ he demanded, not liking the breathless note in his voice.

He couldn’t see his face but knew Z’kila rolled his eyes simply by the way he exhaled. ‘It’s adorable how you think I couldn’t get out of this if I wanted.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Estinien hissed. ‘That is not what I asked.’ 

Z’kila turned to glance over his shoulder, his head still resting against the ground with his wrists in Estinien’s grip. ‘Do you think I would let you fuck me purely for your sake? Exactly how selfless do you believe me to be?’

Until this journey began Estinien had believed the Warrior of Light to be a petulant child of a man that saved the world on multiple occasions just because people nagged him to. Slaying primals was something of a pastime he partook in because he was one of the only ones capable enough. And despite his rough and callous manner, so many people revered him. But so many days in constant company with Z’kila revealed hints of a different tale and Estinien was starting to wonder whether he would let him do this for the sake of his own relief. 

‘_Yes_, I want it, by the Twelve,’ Z’kila grumbled when Estinien didn’t answer, turning his face back into the sheet. Estinien liked to think he was hiding a blush.

It wasn’t quite the breathless begging he had fantasised about but it hearing it so explicitly still sent a fresh thrum of arousal through Estinien’s veins. He pulled down Z’kila’s smalls before he could question himself again, helped him kick them off over his knees and ankles. The desire to just dive into him made his face burn and he resisted, distracting himself by grabbing a handful of the firm but pliant flesh of Z’kila’s backside. His partner tried to hide a shiver by rolling his shoulders. 

‘Do you have anything?’ Estinien asked, voice coming out strained and rough.

Z’kila laughed, a high-pitched mocking note that strangely put Estinien more at ease. ‘Funnily enough I didn’t preempt anything like this. So no.’ He paused and then added, ‘I, uh, haven’t done this much so go slow. Please.’ 

Estinien had guessed as much, but it only stressed the precariousness of their current position. For lack of anything else, he spat on his fingers. His left hand still keeping Z’kila’s wrists in a loose enough hold pinned to his back for him to pull free if he wanted, he dragged one finger of his right hand down his spine, avoiding the base of his tail as Z’kila flicked it out of the way. Estinien did his best to take his time rubbing gently at Z’kila’s entrance, urging him to relax and savouring the shaky exhale it drew from his partner. 

Z’kila tensed all over when he pushed in with that single finger, trembling breaths going suddenly silent. His tail flicked against Estinien’s thigh as he parted his knees a little more, trying to hide his discomfort and doing a poor job of it. Estinien leant over him and bit into the softer flesh at his waist as he pressed deeper, another point of contact designed to distract and ground him. Z’kila flinched away from the sting and released a noise like a panting growl, but the motion eased him up just enough. Estinien kept his movement slow and slight once he was down to the knuckle, feeling him tense and relax against the intrusion, tense and relax. Only when he stopped tensing did Estinien press in a second finger. 

A muffled grunt was the response he got this time, a silent wince when he bit into another patch of skin. 

‘You’d better not leave marks,’ Z’kila grumbled into the sheet beneath him. 

Estinien looked at the indents his teeth had left, one a lovely flushed pink and the other starting to turn an angry red. ‘I didn’t realise you had a secret sweetheart hidden away waiting for you somewhere,’ he teased to avoid answering. 

‘Please, as if anyone would—_mph!_’ 

Z’kila choked on a moan as Estinien curled his fingers. He fought weakly against the binding grip, fists clenching and unclenching with the spasm of sensation. For Estinien the sound alone sent a spike of heat between his legs. Not quite the mewling mess he wanted, but not so far away from it now. He took his time pressing in, stroking, stretching him. His member protested strongly at the time he was taking but he calmed himself by reminding himself that none of this would help, would not ease the suffocating self-loathing and hatred if Z’kila spent the entire time in pain. His partner’s slight trembling and loud breaths were nice in their own way. 

Three fingers in and Z’kila started to add voice to each panting breath; tiny, almost soundless moans of the liminal space between pain and pleasure. Estinien bowed over him and bit at his shoulder blades just to get closer to those sounds. 

‘I… I didn’t have you down as such a gentleman in these endeavours,’ Z’kila managed to say, panting around a laugh. 

He wasn’t usually. Estinien was hardly an attentive lover and he knew that, accepted it without protest. Besides, he was hardly being selfless. His patience was decidedly selfish, in fact. But Z’kila didn’t need to hear any of that. 

‘Don’t get used to it,’ he grunted, withdrawing his fingers and unlacing his breeches. 

He lined up his hips with Z’kila’s, positioning his knees outside of his partner’s to make up for his longer legs. Coating himself in a thin sheen of saliva (hardly ideal but needs must), he took his member in hand and lined himself up. 

‘Hurry up, will you?’ Z’kila said with a slight, sultry wiggle of his hips that made Estinien go light-headed. When he was capable of thought again he noticed that his partner was hardly relaxed. With very little blood left for his mind to function he could only rely on instinct and released Z’kila’s wrists in order to take a loose grasp of his tail, still flicking against his thigh, and stroke from base to tip. 

The fur was soft against his palm from its earlier brushing and the effect was almost immediate. The resistance against his head eased just enough for him to push in. 

Z’kila jerked, his freed hands grasping for purchase in the sheets, a whimper escaping and turning into something of an indignant groan partway through. Estinien had trouble comprehending anything beyond the immediate sensation of hot and tight, even as shallow as he was. The addition of Z’kila’s whimper assaulting his ears simply made him dizzy. It took every onze of concentration he had left to think to continue running his hand along his tail, soothing him further even as his other hand moved to hold onto his waist. He was slow to bring their hips flush together, as much for the sake of keeping himself from getting overexcited as to give Z’kila time to adjust and get used to him. 

When he was sheathed he paused to breathe through the overwhelming sensation, his forehead pressed between his partner’s shoulder blades. He could hear the thudding of his heart, or perhaps that was his own. Z’kila’s breath caught when Estinien shifted a little on his knees.

While Estinien struggled to calm himself down Z’kila propped himself up on his elbows and pushed back, pressing hard against Estinien’s hips as though looking for more. 

_Rude._

Estinien straightened up, released his hold on Z’kila’s tail and instead dug his fingertips into those jutting hipbones, as delightful in his hands as before. That tail curled around one of his thighs as Estinien slowly withdrew ilm by ilm, wincing as Z’kila tensed around him. ‘Ease up, by the Fury,’ he grunted.

‘Do you want to switch?’ Z’kila snapped, the venom somewhat lost in his breathlessness. 

‘I think not,’ Estinien drawled, yanking Z’kila’s hips back to meet his own as he thrust back in, drawing out a soft and dizzying _ah-!_ from his partner. Now that he had this smaller, slender body bent over and yielding beneath him he couldn’t bear the thought of losing this moment. 

He set a bruising pace, pulling Z’kila back into every snap of his hips. He wasn’t interested in making this odd and unexpected coupling last any longer than necessary; this was about chasing his own relief and—arguably just as important—his partner’s. Lost in the pleasure of Z’kila’s heat, it must have been several moments (or bells for all Estinien knew) before he noticed that Z’kila was not touching himself. He rested on his elbows, eyes hidden in his forearms while his fingers kneaded at the thin sheet beneath. His breath came short and shallow with each thrust, barely voiced but loud in the silence of the night. 

But that wouldn’t do. Estinien could already feel twinges of tightening in his gut and Z’kila was nowhere near close yet. The idea of finishing first disgusted him. 

He spared himself a moment the savour the unyielding hips in his grasp before abandoning them to slide his hands up Z’kila’s sides, slipping beneath the undershirt, relishing the softer skin of his waist and the ridges of his ribs, and hauled him upright. 

Z’kila flailed a little at the sudden manhandling, finding himself pressed back into Estinien’s chest and not knowing what to do with his arms or where to hide his flushed face. He settled on gripping the forearm crossed over his chest, fingernails biting into Estinien’s skin. With his free hand Estinien held him still to reestablish the pace of his thrusts, and the change in angle drew a downright filthy moan from Z’kila. 

The heat in Estinien’s gut coiled a little tighter and he answered with a growl. One arm still holding his partner firmly in place, the other hand glided across the firm, flat plane of his stomach down to his groin and wrapped around him. No teasing. He wasn’t looking to draw this out. A quick, simple finish. 

Finding a rhythm for both his hips and his hand proved tricky at first and gave Estinien a chance to cool down. Z’kila for his part had managed to stifle any further noise beyond heavy panting and breathed into just feeling. His eyes were closed. Ears pinned. Lips slightly parted. 

Estinien yanked his gaze from his partner’s face and told himself that part didn’t matter. 

When he found a pace that he could match with his grip Z’kila seemed to buckle with a moan that was halfway to a whimper. Estinien sunk his teeth into his partner’s shoulder as he worked, craving more sounds like that, wanting to push him to the mewling noises of his daydream. Was Z’kila even capable of such vulnerability? Possibly not, but hells if Estinien wasn’t going to try. 

He got what he wanted. Or, at least, close enough to it. Nothing he could call a mewl, even at a push, but those moaning whimpers, scarce as they were, fuelled his determination through the ache in his wrist and the soreness that was beginning in his knees. 

Z’kila gave very little away even in the throes of pleasure. The small noises he made told Estinien he was going in the right direction but nothing more. He showed no indication of how close he was to his end, if he was close at all. That is, until Z’kila let his head fall back against his partner’s shoulder and opened his eyes a crack, a dark gaze filled with lust and want, and grinned when he found Estinien watching him, a sneer that revealed at this close proximity the smallest of fangs that he hadn’t noticed before. 

One hand left Estinien’s supporting forearm and snuck back to grip his hip instead. Estinien faltered at the unexpected contact and Z’kila urged him to continue, controlling the pace of every thrust himself. Estinien found that he wasn’t averse to obliging him. 

That was all the warning he received before Z’kila tensed, his breath ceasing completely as his body seized, his back arching, and tightened around Estinien to the point he was forced to still his hips. He stroked his partner through his climax instead, the evidence of which striped across the sheet beneath. The simultaneous arousal and relief it brought Estinien was almost as good as his own release.

Almost.

The moment Z’kila started to come down from his high Estinien pushed on his shoulders. Z’kila barely got his arms down in time to stop his face hitting the ground first, didn’t get chance to say anything, able only to grunt indignantly before Estinien wrapped his fingers around his hips and pulled him back into the first snapping thrust. 

Z’kila’s first gasp spoke more of oversensitivity than pleasure but Estinien no longer cared for it. He set a bruising pace, his grasp digging into Z’kila’s hips like claws. His eyes were cast down, rapturously watching the point at which they connected and the way every harsh thrust sent the firm, toned flesh of his partner’s backside rippling. Z’kila breathed through his teeth, harsh and hissed panting despite evident attempts to keep quiet. His hands were fisted into the sheet as he obediently let Estinien find his end.

Just letting Estinien use him to find pleasure now that his own finish had been reached.

Just taking it. 

If it wasn’t the thought alone that pushed Estinien over the precipice it certainly helped. The clench started low in his belly and then gripped the rest of him but he maintained the presence of mind to pull away and take himself in hand instead, releasing across Z’kila’s buttocks. 

A moment of stillness followed the high.

Then he fell back onto his heels with a heavy exhale. Z’kila rolled sluggishly onto his back, lying spread-eagled and looking a little like someone had placed him in a trance with his chest heaving, eyes wide and lips parted. 

Now that the intolerable pressure, the inexplicable desire for relief had passed the urge to go and jump off the end of the world returned to Estinien in full force. He yanked up his breeches and laced them in a hurried knot that he knew he’d regret later. Z’kila spotted the movement and rolled his eyes. ‘_Please_ don’t turn this into a thing.’ 

‘What thing?’ Estinien growled, straightening his undershirt. ‘Who’s turning it into anything?’

‘You are,’ Z’kila snapped, wincing slightly as he sat up. Somewhere behind the suffocating mortification Estinien felt a twinge of pride. ‘We’re both stressed to breaking point and haven’t had a moment to ourselves in nearly a half-moon. It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘No?’ Estinien clenched his hands into fists to prevent himself grabbing Z’kila by the collar and shaking him senseless. ‘You miqo’te might be used to meaningless dalliances but it is not something I want added to my reputation.’ 

Z’kila grimaced. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. This wasn’t something so special that I’ll be talking about it to anyone.’ Estinien scowled. Z’kila’s lips quirked up in a grin. 

‘You were certainly enjoying yourself in the moment,’ Estinien countered, jerking his chin at the wet spot in the sheet. 

‘I tend to enjoy myself whenever I lie with anyone. That doesn’t mean I like boasting about it, and you were hardly the best I’ve had,’ he added with a sniff.

‘Is that so?’ Estinien answered through gritted teeth. 

Z’kila raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Hit a nerve, did I? I thought you were regretting it?’ 

Estinien spotted Z’kila’s gear piled up in the corner and threw one of his boots at him. ‘Get dressed. If we go now we might make Zenith by dawn.’ He spared the man half a glance and found a rather amusing conflict of emotions cross his face as he deflected the improvised projectile. No doubt not wanting to sleep any more than Estinien did but dreading the hike while feeling particularly...sensitive. It eased the humiliation somewhat. 

‘You’re packing,’ Z’kila spat after a moment. 

The walk was quiet. Most of Nidhogg’s minions had scarpered in the immediate aftermath of his demise and Z’kila was just...Z’kila. Sass and complaints incarnate. The same as ever. And that helped. He was right, Estinien thought bitterly. The only one making something of nothing was himself. The dragon’s eye continued to seethe with a level of anger he was barely able to tolerate, but knowing it wasn’t his own made it bearable. And Z’kila might have a point in allowing it to drive him instead of consume him.

He felt conflicted watching Z’kila as they travelled. He felt nothing romantic towards him, that much was obvious, and he knew with just as much clarity that Z’kila felt nothing for him that way either. It had been an affair of necessity. But as much as he wanted not a soul to learn of it, he couldn’t help but feel just a little disappointed that Z’kila walked without so much as an indication of a limp.


End file.
